Blue Slake
by BaldBeagleEagle
Summary: The life and death of a Pokemon trainer.
1. Misstep

Mister Lovell was a very sick man. He knew this because of all the books he kept on his bookshelf. Each one turned to him and said, "You're terribly ill, Mister Lovell. Why don't you go and get some rest?"

Alas! There was simply no time for that. There were a million things to be done and no time to do them. Every day in the week was bursting with chores and tasks that sunk their claws into his fingers and refused to let go until he had given them a good whack with the blunt side of an ax. Today's task was to get rid of the weeds.

As he walked towards the door, his house swayed. He clearly remembered that the last time it had swayed, the ground had gone with it. Nevertheless, he pressed onward.

Outside was everything. A lot of everything. Trees danced in and out of his vision as the road rose and fell to match his footsteps. He saw the gases in the air glow and smile softly to him with their incurable joyousness. The sky spun around and around like a dancer set loose upon the stage, her arms fiercely clutching the sun so it would not fall. The clouds looked on in joy, weeping tears of water that swamped the Earth in awe of her beauty. Lovell felt the sickness within him again, a looming bubble of nausea that told him that he was alive. He was afraid that he might forget if he were to not be reminded of it.

Soon the brightness of the day had faded into the heavy film that lay atop everything in sight. In that thickness was hidden Lovell's task of the day. A dilapidated building, sagging into the mud and bent from the rain, was where he needed to go. And when he arrived there, he had forgotten why he left. He did remember that the doors, the gaping holes through which the blackness of the interior shined through, were open. Open and willing, they did not utter a sound when he passed by them.


	2. Learning

The TV was snowy again. A haze of static flickered over the washed out picture of the latest contest winner, a bright eyed young thing with an obsession for the color red. Red was a color that seemed to find its way into everything: the floorboards, the walls, the home appliances, the clothes, the food, the water- all of them were red. Red was the color of the roaches hiding in the cupboards, the color of the roaches when you stepped on them, and the color of your shoe after stepping on the roaches. Red was the color of the flowers that wilted solemnly by the windowsill. Red was the color of the fake jewels hidden under the floor so no one would ever find them. But Red was not the name of the person watching the television.

Now the news had switched to a new story. An impossibly clean reporter stood rigid in front of a large, residential looking building. A man had been murdered; a clean gash dividing his torso into two equal parts. A crack team of scientists were squawking about how their DNA tests and forensics could find the culprit if only there were just given more time, just a little more time. Somewhere, the victim's family might have been crying, but that was not the best time to show it. Now was the time for excitement, the thrill of the hunt, where the determined and courageous agents of the law began their quest to apprehend the villainous murderer. The family could have their moment after the killer had been thrown into an industrial fan.

The girl watching the news piece had evidently grown tired of it, for her arm slowly found its way to the remote and searched for the power button. As she switched the TV off, she idly wondered if a man could walk if he had his legs sewn on backwards. At any rate, her legs functioned adequately as she went downstairs. Perhaps her mother would know something else about the murder. She mulled it over in her head as she was walking, and decided that there was a remote possibility that she might have learned something significant about it. She did have a subscription for a print newspaper, after all.

Her mother took a while to hear her come down the steps. When she did, she turned around enthusiastically, her eyes sparkling with delight.

"Oh, Leaf! I was looking for you!" she said.

"My name isn't Leaf, mother."

"I was reading the newspaper, and I came across the most fascinating article! This man, he's a psychologist, he says that all children should leave the house by the age of twelve!"

"I'm twelve, mother."

"Then it's time to start your very own journey!"

The girl stood still, for she was still confused at how anyone could say something like that and genuinely believe it. The mother did not, for she had already gotten up and ran towards the girl, and now was dragging her towards the door. Without hesitating, she shoved the girl outside and locked the door.

A mother evicting her daughter to make her travel across the region.

How strange.

Well, if there was a place for a young, journeying person to go, it would be the professor's. The professor, a veteran of such an experience himself, was always willing to give advice to any prospective travelers of the region. He had set up shop in a dingy brick hostel at the edge of town. No one knew for certain what kind of work the professor did at that place. He was suspected of having friends in odd places, friends that a man like himself would not normally have. All of these things were merely suspicions, however, as the girl walked inside the hostel. She caught a strong scent of mildew as she looked around the dimly lit room covered with a stained grey carpet and peeling wallpaper. A metal counter took up the most space in the room, where the professor was engaged with something that the girl could not see. He did not here her come inside, so she gently tapped her hand on the counter until he stopped what he was doing to look at her.

"What do you want?" he said, refusing to make eye contact with her.

"I'm going on a journey."

"Ah, yes- hold on a minute." The professor walked to the back of the room, where he opened a door to some kind of storage facility. He returned with a Marill and a knife, the latter of which he laid on the countertop.

"That should be everything you need. Now, don't come back."

"What is the knife for, professor?"

"There is no knife."

The girl decided to take the knife just to be safe, and then left the shop with the Marill.


	3. Watching

She could not remember how long she had been walking for. An hour? Four days? A lifetime? A lifetime was too long to be spent walking, for sure. And yet there she was, walking somewhere. Now that she thought about it, it would be more important to know where she was going.

"Where am I going?" she asked.

"You're going to get some badges, young one," said the Marill.

There was a house by the road, a wooden cottage most certainly built in the last decade. When she knocked on the door, someone answered it.

"What do you want?"

"I want some badges."

"Well, you'll have to look somewhere else, because there aren't any badges here."

Where could those badges be?

"I'll ask one of my associates," the Marill said.

The phone rang, so she picked it up.

"… for your first badge, you'll want to go to the miner's house. It's located on 44th Avenue. Be quick and succinct."

"That's where we need to go."

"But we're already there."

44th Avenue. Tidy and well kept. A thousand angels planted on the doorstep. Lightly dusted, frequently serviced.

"We need to be discreet," said Marill, before breaking the window with a brick.

The miner wasn't home, but he was there. There was where they were and they were there.

"Watch closely."

The Marill swung.

"Again."

Another swing.

"One last time."

The bat broke the skull like a piñata. Fragments of bone. Blood everywhere. Eyes and mouth open in a silent scream. Broken, broken, broken.

"There's your first badge."

There was a badge.

"For your next badge, I'll need you to help me with the housekeeping procedures a bit. Keep the red paint away from your dress. It stains."

Why didn't the angels on the doorstep come? O father in heaven, your angels you left me on the doorstep, they didn't come in my time of need. They failed me, those angels, and now I rest upon the spits of death whose grip is eternal. Where were those angels? I needed the love and comfort of those angels. I talked to those angels and they didn't answer me please help they left me to die left me to die left me to die left me to die left me.


	4. Teacher

"Now, this can't be right."

"What can't be right about it?"

"Everything is all wet."

They were slipping on the pavement again. No one had bothered to clean it.

"We need a bus."

The bus walked up to them all sad like and slipped on the pavement.

"Where are going?"  
"We're going where we need to go."

"Where do you need to go?"  
"We need to go where we're going."

The bus apologized and continued on to their destination.

"Now I have a collection of facts that will make your head spin, whirl, and shatter," said the Marill.

"What could those be?"  
"First of all, let it be known that Toko is objectively the best girl. I have studied the evidence closely and preformed many experiments, and I have determined that there is no other possible scenario in which anyone else could be the best girl."

"Isn't her name White? From the games?"

"Shouldn't you be telling me about the 17th of June?"

The 17th of June was when a mysterious death was reported on the local news at no later than midnight. Local gym leader Brock "Rock" Rockson was found beaten to death in his apartment. No evidence suggested foul play, because the blood found spilling from his head did not match the killer's DNA left behind in several hair strands. Local community support officer Delilah gave an eulogy from five minutes away about the importance of facial care, alone time, and sex education. Local shrimp were reported to taste salty, with a touch of garlic.

"Now that can't be right. I just contacted the police and told them to investigate that place."

"What day is it?"

"June sixteenth."

The clock chimed in its newest hit single. _Twenty Two Days Since the Last Taylor Swift Breakup Album! _It's at the top of all the charts! It broke the charts!

"Do you see what I'm holding?"

"Matches."

"We need to learn a lesson on fire safety."

They stepped out of the window, where a horrid mess of wood and plaster greeted them.

"We need to learn that wood burns easily. Light this one for me."

She took the match and struck it.

"Won't burning this be a bit unsafe?" she asked.

"No one will ever know that wood is flammable if we don't tell them."

"I'm sorry I ever doubted you."  
That acrid smoky smell smothered everything for a day. Coughing, choking, clamoring for more, it raged and swarmed until it starved itself of fuel and sunk within itself, dragging what it could not eat with it into the earth. The worms grew fat that day.


End file.
